A.P. Chekhov - Shrove Tuesday
"PAVEL VASSILITCH!" cries Pelageya Ivanovna, waking her husband.
"Pavel Vassilitch! You might go and help Styopa with his
lessons, he is sitting crying over his book. He can't understand
Pavel Vassilitch gets up, makes the sign of the cross over his
mouth as he yawns, and says softly: "In a minute, my love!"
The cat who has been asleep beside him gets up too, straightens
out its tail, arches its spine, and half-shuts its eyes. There
is stillness. . . . Mice can be heard scurrying behind the
wall-paper. Putting on his boots and his dressing-gown, Pavel
Vassilitch, crumpled and frowning from sleepiness, comes out of
his bedroom into the dining-room; on his entrance another cat,
engaged in sniffing a marinade of fish in the window, jumps down
to the floor, and hides behind the cupboard.
"Who asked you to sniff that!" he says angrily, covering the
fish with a sheet of newspaper. "You are a pig to do that, not a
cat. . . ."
From the dining-room there is a door leading into the nursery.
There, at a table covered with stains and deep scratches, sits
Styopa, a high-school boy in the second class, with a peevish
expression of face and tear-stained eyes. With his knees raised
almost to his chin, and his hands clasped round them, he is
swaying to and fro like a Chinese idol and looking crossly at a
"Are you working?" asks Pavel Vassilitch, sitting down to the
table and yawning. "Yes, my boy. . . . We have enjoyed
ourselves, slept, and eaten pancakes, and to-morrow comes Lenten
fare, repentance, and going to work. Every period of time has
its limits. Why are your eyes so red? Are you sick of learning
your lessons? To be sure, after pancakes, lessons are nasty to
swallow. That's about it."
"What are you laughing at the child for?" Pelageya Ivanovna
calls from the next room. "You had better show him instead of
laughing at him. He'll get a one again to-morrow, and make me
"What is it you don't understand?" Pavel Vassilitch asks Styopa.
"Why this . . . division of fractions," the boy answers crossly.
"The division of fractions by fractions. . . ."
"H'm . . . queer boy! What is there in it? There's nothing to
understand in it. Learn the rules, and that's all. . . . To
divide a fraction by a fraction you must multiply the numerator
of the first fraction by the denominator of the second, and that
will be the numerator of the quotient. . . . In this case, the
numerator of the first fraction. . . ."
"I know that without your telling me," Styopa interrupts him,
flicking a walnut shell off the table. "Show me the proof."
"The proof? Very well, give me a pencil. Listen. . . . Suppose
we want to divide seven eighths by two fifths. Well, the point
of it is, my boy, that it's required to divide these fractions
by each other. . . . Have they set the samovar?"
"I don't know."
"It's time for tea. . . . It's past seven. Well, now listen. We
will look at it like this. . . . Suppose we want to divide seven
eighths not by two fifths but by two, that is, by the numerator
only. We divide it, what do we get?
"Right. Bravo! Well, the trick of it is, my boy, that if we . .
. so if we have divided it by two then. . . . Wait a bit, I am
getting muddled. I remember when I was at school, the teacher of
arithmetic was called Sigismund Urbanitch, a Pole. He used to
get into a muddle over every lesson. He would begin explaining
some theory, get in a tangle, and turn crimson all over and race
up and down the class-room as though someone were sticking an
awl in his back, then he would blow his nose half a dozen times
and begin to cry. But you know we were magnanimous to him, we
pretended not to see it. 'What is it, Sigismund Urbanitch?' we
used to ask him. 'Have you got toothache?' And what a set of
young ruffians, regular cut-throats, we were, but yet we were
magnanimous, you know! There weren't any boys like you in my
day, they were all great hulking fellows, great strapping louts,
one taller than another. For instance, in our third class, there
was Mamahin. My goodness, he was a solid chap! You know, a
regular maypole, seven feet high. When he moved, the floor
shook; when he brought his great fist down on your back, he
would knock the breath out of your body! Not only we boys, but
even the teachers were afraid of him. So this Mamahin used to .
Pelageya Ivanovna's footsteps are heard through the door. Pavel
Vassilitch winks towards the door and says:
"There's mother coming. Let's get to work. Well, so you see, my
boy," he says, raising his voice. "This fraction has to be
multiplied by that one. Well, and to do that you have to take
the numerator of the first fraction. . ."
"Come to tea!" cries Pelageya Ivanovna. Pavel Vassilitch and his
son abandon arithmetic and go in to tea. Pelageya Ivanovna is
already sitting at the table with an aunt who never speaks,
another aunt who is deaf and dumb, and Granny Markovna, a
midwife who had helped Styopa into the world. The samovar is
hissing and puffing out steam which throws flickering shadows on
the ceiling. The cats come in from the entry sleepy and
melancholy with their tails in the air. . . .
"Have some jam with your tea, Markovna," says Pelageya Ivanovna,
addressing the midwife. "To-morrow the great fast begins. Eat
Markovna takes a heaped spoonful of jam hesitatingly as though
it were a powder, raises it to her lips, and with a sidelong
look at Pavel Vassilitch, eats it; at once her face is
overspread with a sweet smile, as sweet as the jam itself.
"The jam is particularly good," she says. "Did you make it
yourself, Pelageya Ivanovna, ma'am?"
"Yes. Who else is there to do it? I do everything myself.
Styopotchka, have I given you your tea too weak? Ah, you have
drunk it already. Pass your cup, my angel; let me give you some
"So this Mamahin, my boy, could not bear the French master,"
Pavel Vassilitch goes on, addressing his son. " 'I am a
nobleman,' he used to shout, 'and I won't allow a Frenchman to
lord it over me! We beat the French in 1812!' Well, of course
they used to thrash him for it . . . thrash him dre-ead-fully,
and sometimes when he saw they were meaning to thrash him, he
would jump out of window, and off he would go! Then for five or
six days afterwards he would not show himself at the school. His
mother would come to the head-master and beg him for God's sake:
'Be so kind, sir, as to find my Mishka, and flog him, the
rascal!' And the head-master would say to her: 'Upon my word,
madam, our five porters aren't a match for him!' "
"Good heavens, to think of such ruffians being born," whispers
Pelageya Ivanovna, looking at her husband in horror. "What a
trial for the poor mother!"
A silence follows. Styopa yawns loudly, and scrutinises the
Chinaman on the tea-caddy whom he has seen a thousand times
already. Markovna and the two aunts sip tea carefully out of
their saucers. The air is still and stifling from the stove. . .
. Faces and gestures betray the sloth and repletion that comes
when the stomach is full, and yet one must go on eating. The
samovar, the cups, and the table-cloth are cleared away, but
still the family sits on at the table. . . . Pelageya Ivanovna
is continually jumping up and, with an expression of alarm on
her face, running off into the kitchen, to talk to the cook
about the supper. The two aunts go on sitting in the same
position immovably, with their arms folded across their bosoms
and doze, staring with their pewtery little eyes at the lamp.
Markovna hiccups every minute and asks:
"Why is it I have the hiccups? I don't think I have eaten
anything to account for it . . . nor drunk anything either. . .
Pavel Vassilitch and Styopa sit side by side, with their heads
touching, and, bending over the table, examine a volume of the
"Neva" for 1878.
" 'The monument of Leonardo da Vinci, facing the gallery of
Victor Emmanuel at Milan.' I say! . . . After the style of a
triumphal arch. . . . A cavalier with his lady. . . . And there
are little men in the distance. . . ."
"That little man is like a schoolfellow of mine called
Niskubin," says Styopa.
"Turn over. . . . 'The proboscis of the common house-fly seen
under the microscope.' So that's a proboscis! I say -- a fly.
Whatever would a bug look like under a microscope, my boy?
Wouldn't it be horrid!"
The old-fashioned clock in the drawing-room does not strike, but
coughs ten times huskily as though it had a cold. The cook,
Anna, comes into the dining-room, and plumps down at the
"Forgive me, for Christ's sake, Pavel Vassilitch!" she says,
getting up, flushed all over.
"You forgive me, too, for Christ's sake," Pavel Vassilitch
In the same manner, Anna goes up to the other members of the
family, plumps down at their feet, and begs forgiveness. She
only misses out Markovna to whom, not being one of the gentry,
she does not feel it necessary to bow down.
Another half-hour passes in stillness and tranquillity. The
"Neva" is by now lying on the sofa, and Pavel Vassilitch,
holding up his finger, repeats by heart some Latin verses he has
learned in his childhood. Styopa stares at the finger with the
wedding ring, listens to the unintelligible words, and dozes; he
rubs his eyelids with his fists, and they shut all the tighter.
"I am going to bed . . ." he says, stretching and yawning.
"What, to bed?" says Pelageya Ivanovna. "What about supper
before the fast?"
"I don't want any."
"Are you crazy?" says his mother in alarm. "How can you go
without your supper before the fast? You'll have nothing but
Lenten food all through the fast!"
Pavel Vassilitch is scared too.
"Yes, yes, my boy," he says. "For seven weeks mother will give
you nothing but Lenten food. You can't miss the last supper
before the fast."
"Oh dear, I am sleepy," says Styopa peevishly.
"Since that is how it is, lay the supper quickly," Pavel
Vassilitch cries in a fluster. "Anna, why are you sitting there,
silly? Make haste and lay the table."
Pelageya Ivanovna clasps her hands and runs into the kitchen
with an expression as though the house were on fire.
"Make haste, make haste," is heard all over the house.
"Styopotchka is sleepy. Anna! Oh dear me, what is one to do?
Five minutes later the table is laid. Again the cats, arching
their spines, and stretching themselves with their tails in the
air, come into the dining-room. . . . The family begin supper. .
. . No one is hungry, everyone's stomach is overfull, but yet
they must eat.
SHROVE TUESDAY: the Russian title should be translated as "On
the Eve of the Fast"
the cross over his mouth: so that the devil cannot enter his
soul through his open mouth
Lenten fare: for Orthodox Russians there are seven weeks of
preparation for Easter, beginning with "Butter Week" in which
milk products and eggs may be eaten, but no meat; after that
come the six weeks of Lent in which all these foods are
French in 1812: Napoleon invaded Russia on June 24, 1812, but
the severe winter and lack of supplies forced a costly retreat
the folowing November
Forgive me: it was the custom to ask forgiveness of everyone,
particularly on the way to confession